


Deo Volente

by HiHoKermit



Category: Pagan Chronicles - Catherine Jinks
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22700878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiHoKermit/pseuds/HiHoKermit
Summary: Pagan is confused, Roland is suffering, and Jordan is much too pleased with himself.
Relationships: Pagan Kidrouk/Lord Jordan, Pagan Kidrouk/Lord Roland Roucy de Bram
Comments: 12
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this takes place during Pagan in Exile, but for the purposes of this story we're gonna pretend Roland and Esclaramonde were just good friends.

The moon is full tonight. I can see it through the hole in the ceiling. Craters like pox scars.

The little dim light is a comfort. I can see clearly if some drunken dungheap comes crashing through our door. You can still hear them downstairs. Started singing off key, all of them. Except Jordan. Voice of an angel, against all odds. Must be what Roland sings like. Now there's a thought. Closing my eyes. 

"Pagan." Whoops. Started humming along. Surprised he's not asleep yet. His father practically forced mead down our throats. 

"Yes, my lord?"

"Why do you follow me?" His voice is quiet.

Roland, this again? Surely you know why I follow you. You're the only bright thing in this corner of the world.

"What do you mean, my lord?" It's alright, Pagan to the rescue.

Turning to look at him. God, he's pale. Is he going to be sick? Wait, no, that's the moonlight. Hold on. Are your eyes shiny? Roland, are those tears? My lord, please don't cry, I can't bear it when you're upset. I don't know what's happened - you were fine at dinner.

He won't look at me. He's staring up at the moon.

"You are more loyal to me than anyone has the right to be. More than I deserve." He sits up. What's he doing?

His voice steadies. "I've been thinking. I want to send you to the Knights Hospitaller. You could be in Jerusalem again. Not this place."

My jaw is somewhere on the floor. Just one moment, my lord, let me just look for it. No wait, I don't have the time to - you're trying to get rid of me. "My lord, why would I do that?" Please tell me you're joking, my lord. Surely you're drunk. Please.

Roland ignores me. "You deserve a better life than this. You have so much potential." (Wrong.) "You're smarter than most." (Well. Can't argue with that.) "You don't need to bare this with me."

Alright, that's it. Getting up. Scoot over, Roland, your pallet's big enough. Grabbing his hands. Hell in a handcart, they're cold. Winter in Jerusalem is so much more bearable than France. Look me in the eyes, Roland. Snap out of it. "My lord, being with you isn't suffering. It's never suffering. I would sit through a hundred dinners with your idiot family - sorry, my lord, no offense - if it meant I could stay with you as your squire."

"But-"

"My life with you is better - so much better than it was. And if I go away, back to Jerusalem, who's going to help you into your armor? Who's going to take care of the horses? Wash the mud off your linens?"

"I can manage-"

"No! You can't! I saw you try to clean your tunic when I was sick, my lord. You missed at least two stains." Really though. "My lord, did I do something? Where did this come from?" Is it your family? Suddenly, I'm not sure anymore. Maybe it's me. Have I been complaining too much about the weather? Or his pig of a father?

His face falls. Oh, I shouldn't have raised my voice. Roland, I'm sorry.

He looks at our hands. His are as rough and calloused as mine. But a bit warmer.

Deep breaths, Pagan. Deep. No one's going anywhere. "My lord. I'm your squire. _Yours._ I'm not going to the Knights Hospitaller." Wait a minute. "And I'm not going with Jordan either."

His eyes widen. Did I get it, Roland? Was that all? I don't understand. "My lord, why are you so worried about Jordan? He hasn't even asked me to serve him. Not that I would."

He stares at me like I'm one brick shy of a full load. "Because he's fond of you." He's what?

"What do you mean he's fond of me? He hardly knows me! We've only just met!"

Roland clears his throat. Once. Twice. "He's... Hm." He's staring at what must be particularly interesting piece of floorboard. There's a crooked nail poking out of it. "He's fond of you in-" A pause. "He looks at you in the way a man looks at a woman."

Oh.

That's.

Well.

I feel my ears getting warm. This explains the little acts of kindness, or what passes for kindness in Bram. And the winking. And the compliments.

"So. He's a Ganymede then?"

Roland makes a choked noise. He clears his throat (doing a lot of that tonight, it seems) and lets go of my hands. They feel cold now.

"We'd do better to get some rest. We'll be up early tomorrow."

Whatever you say, my lord.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today was a weird day. And so was yesterday. But heyy new chapter!

There's rats everywhere. It's revolting. I understand the castle's in ruins, but you'd think they'd have the decency to clean out their cellar every once in a while. Of course, that's what we're here for. Shooing away mice and sweeping. They treat Roland like he's a servant - like he's not better than all of them put together.

I'm still sweeping the east corner. We lit a few candles, but the light hardly makes a dent in this gloom. At least fifty moldy wine barrels in here. Some of them empty, some not. In the other corner, several equally moldy wheels of cheese stacked on shelves. And I stubbed my toe on a sack of potatoes. By the smell, I would bet my last dinar they're as green as kelp, and twice as squishy. The treasure room of Bram, folks.

Sweep sweep sweep.

I can't stop thinking about Jordan. I'm really not all that interesting. Sure, I'm clever. But I'm also small, dark, and built like a horsewhip. Not like Roland. Maybe that's why he pays attention to me. I'm nothing like his brother.

I look over at Roland. I can hardly see him in the dark. He's cleaning an empty shelf with a rag.

"My lord?"

"Yes, Pagan?" Turning to look at me.

"Nevermind." I shouldn't bother Roland with questions. He hardly slept last night.

He almost rolls his eyes. You can tell he wants to, but he doesn't. Templar discipline. "Pagan, what is it?"

"Why did Jordan marry? They both look miserable. Couldn't he have just not taken a wife?" Surely he could've remained unmarried. Or joined a monastery. Or ran away and found work elsewhere.

Roland stops sweeping. He runs his fingers through his hair.

"I assume my father wanted an heir. As a Templar, I will never marry or have children. Jordan can do both." He sounds resigned.

"But they hate each other! And he-"

"Pagan!" Roland pinches the bridge of his nose. "Please. We are staying in my family's home for the time remaining. Please demonstrate some modicum of respect for them during our stay."

"Yes, my lord." But God forbid your family treat * _you_ * with respect.

Back to sweeping.

It's awfully damp down here. Oh, another mouse. This one's - eugh. Half eaten - maybe by another, bigger mouse. I'm sure there's a metaphor here somewhere.

You could choke a man with all the dust in this corner. Just make a great, big ball of it and shove it down his throat. He'd suffocate in minutes.

Roland's moved on to swiping at the cobwebs near the ceiling. His face bears no expression - but I know better. You can't fool me, my lord. You're not happy here either.

"It could be worse, my lord."

Roland looks over at me. He's got a bit of spiderweb in his hair.

"He could've been ugly. Or mute. At least he's got a nice singing voice."

Silence.

"I'm sure you do as well, my lord. Your voices are quite similar."

"Pagan."

Now, 'Pagan' is a word with many meanings. Sometimes it may mean a person with alternative religious beliefs. Other times, it may refer to a startlingly handsome half-Arab. In this case, 'Pagan' most certainly means, "Cleaning is a task best accomplished in silence."

Language. Truly a beautiful thing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took like 80 years to write jshdlahaksjl I hope it's okay!! Edit: went back and edited some stuff. Still not super happy with it, but it'll do for now.

This castle should be sealed off. Left to the mice and worms. Turn the whole place into fertilizer. Someone could plant a nice garden in the ruins a few centuries from now. Imagine with every step, your boots sinking into a carpet, only the carpet's made of little bits of animal bones, dirt, spit, and dried herbs so musty and old they might as well not be there, for what little smell they give off. Could there still be actual rushes underneath? I bet they were put down in Roland's mother's time. Now, they're covered by a thick layer of filth, just like everything else here.

Squish squish squish. Roland was dragged off to do God knows what with his family, in celebration of the mostly successful hunt. No thanks to yours truly. At least he got me a poultice for my eye before he left. No, don't mind me everyone, I'll just go wash off the vomit (mine), the crusty blood (not all mine), and the brain juice (definitely not mine). God, I haven't felt like this in a while. Like I was chewed up and spit out by a cow. My head's throbbing.

Clomping upstairs. At least the rushes are cleaner here. More musty herbs. Grabbing my mostly clean clothes out of our saddlebags. Now to find the tub. Empty room. Locked room. Locked room. Wash room - here it is.

  
I can barely keep my eyes open. Segura and a woman I didn't recognize helped me lug buckets of hot water into the wooden tub. The guilt I felt from an old woman like Segura helping me carry water was overpowered by the other woman glaring at me like I was a drowned rat. Don't really blame her, to be honest - I know I certainly smelled like one.

Sinking further into the water. Closing my eyes. So warm. It's actually quiet once. A rare moment of peace.

I don't hate Jordan. Not yet at least. He hasn't really given me a good reason to hate him so far. I don't particularly like how he looks at me - like I'm a bit of lamb on a skewer. Or his little jabs at Roland. I certainly don't trust him. But I don't hate him.

I knew a Ganymede on the night watch. He seemed normal enough. Kept to himself. I saw him with a man once, in an alley after watch one morning. Pulled a knife on me and said he'd kill me if I breathed a word about it. Didn't see him much after that, but I never told anyone neither. No point in making either of lives harder. Besides, if I had brought it up to anyone, they'd have asked if I was watching. Which I wasn't.

I don't know what to make of him. I really don't. He's a bad person by most people's standards. He nothing like Roland. But compared to the rest of his family, he might as well wear a shining a halo. Oh, and there's his wife. Poor Gauzia.

"Pagan?"

Christ in a cream cheese sauce. Speak of the devil. Maybe if I'm quiet, he'll go away. Thank God I locked the door.

"Pagan?" He sounds drunk. Of course.

"What do you want, Lord Jordan?" I finally yell back. Please leave. I just wanted a bath.

A pause.

"Are you free? After your bath?"

What? No. I would like nothing more than the flop down onto my palaisse, squeaky clean, and sleep until Roland finally comes to his senses and realizes this place is evil, run back to Jerusalem, and never set foot again in Bram for as long as we have feet.

"I need to rest, my lord. Long day."

A pause. I can practically hear him rolling his eyes. "Come out after. I want to show you something. Nothing serious, don't worry. I just want to see something."

Well that's incredibly ominous. Dunking my head in the water and scrubbing my hair furiously. If he's still talking, I can't hear him.

Please, Lord, let me survive whatever Jordan has planned. Please let me not get my eyes plucked out like that hawk of his. Please let my head firmly attached to my body.

  
My fingers are starting to prune, and the water's turned lukewarm. Can't delay this any longer, or I'll come out looking like Brother Alfred. Absolutely ancient, he was - easily the oldest monk I've ever met. More wrinkles than an elephant's backside, and blinder than any bat.

Drying myself off with a rag. Ignoring the suspicious stains on said rag. Clothes. Finger-combing my hair. Alright. Good enough. Now to sneak off to bed. Maybe Jordan's forgotten all about me by now. Stepping outside quietly.

"Pagan. You took your time."

Christ in a cream cheese sauce. He's sitting on the floor in the hall, just slumped against a wall. Has he been waiting there for me this whole time?

Standing up and stretching. God, he's tall. His eyes are red and a little puffy. He's changed clothes, but they're somehow no less showy than his clothes from earlier. His closet must be bigger than his wife's.

"What is it, my lord? Forgive me, but I'm very tired. I'd like to rest."

Smiling crookedly. "This won't take long, Pagan, I assure you. Follow me."

God preserve us. Me, specifically. Where are we going? It's so late. Down the hallway. Towards his bedroom. Stopping just outside.

"Gauzia!" He barks. Like he's calling an animal, or a disobedient child. Gauzia appears. Her hair is unkempt but pinned back, and there's those ever-present dark circles under her eyes. She stays silent, glaring at Jordan. It's hard not to feel a little sorry for her with a marriage like that, even if she did call me a filthy Arab.

"Gauzia," in a voice like silk now. He leans in and whispers something in her ear. Whatever he says makes her glare at him harder. She blinks and retreats into the bedroom. What did he say?

A pause. Opening the door again. Thrusting something into his hands quickly, then slamming it shut. Jordan squints at the door. Ouch. She'll pay for that later, I'm sure. 

"Right, then. Off to find a window." Winking. His voice sounds almost cheery. God, he's going to throw me out a window. I bet she gave him a knife. A little one. He's going to stab me. I know it.

"Pagan, what's wrong?" Already halfway down the hall. I haven't moved. Today really has been horrible. But I'd really like to not die. Not that a lot of people would miss me, really. In fact, I could name plenty that would celebrate. Not Roland though. Roland would be upset.

"Are you going to kill me?"

Swivelling back to stare at me. He looks a little unsteady. Squinting. "What?"

"I said, are you going to kill me? Because I'd really like to know in advance. I haven't written a will or anything." Jokes. But my hands are shaking a little.

Staring at me. "Pagan." He says flatly. "What on earth are you babbling about? Are you that tired? We went hunting, we didn't run across France." He seems less amused now.

Down the stairs. Squishing my way across the floor. He comes to a stop by the table.

"Sit."

I sit. Slumping against the back of the chair. The wood feels more comfortable than usual. Gazing down in front of me. A great beam of moonlight's illuminating the grain. If you ignore the leftover bits of food and scars where Roland's brute family carved their knives in, it was probably beautiful once.

Looking up. Jordan's pulling out a thin piece of wood. Too small to be a dagger, then. And a pot. Is that kohl? Why does he have kohl? And where did he get it in Bram? Sitting up a little straighter.

Jordan sees my expression and rolls his eyes. Smirking. "I told you, I wasn't going to harm you, Pagan." 

And yet, you brandishing imported women's makeup doesn't inspire much confidence. "But what do you need kohl for, my lord?"

Sitting down in the chair next to me. He smiles like a serpent. Or a lion. Far too many teeth. "You see, Pagan, you have," Reaching across. Tilting my face upward into the light. "The most beautiful eyelashes. You really do."

Oh God. His fingers are so warm. Holding the side of my face up. Caressing my cheek. Am I dreaming? Has today just been a terrible dream? I shiver. 

Smiling wider. I'm just cold, my lord. Please don't smile at me like that. 

He laughs suddenly. Saints preserve us, did I say it out loud?

Not speaking now. Just smirking to himself. Opening the little metal pot. Dipping the wooden stick in it. Grasping my face in hands. Gently applying the kohl onto my right eye. Feels cold, but not the worst thing I've had smeared on my face. Onto my left now. If I wasn't so tired, I wouldn't be letting Jordan do - whatever this is - to me. Yes. If I was more awake, I'd say something. I'd find an excuse to get away. Of course I would.

"All done. Let me look at you." Jordan says quietly.

Tilting my head back. His hand's knotted in my hair.

His other hand brushes a strand of hair from my forehead. Such dark eyes. Can't look away. Just staring at me.

"It suits you." Spoken so quietly, I almost don't hear him.

A clang in the distance. The sound of footsteps approaching. Jordan quickly releasing my hair and standing up. Winking. "Fun's over."

"Pagan!"

Roland!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been rereading the series yet again, so I made a [fanmix](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0zXc9pf364GggF4tL2Q6vf?si=5vYtusslTrqhPxH8ltvexA)!! It loosely follows books 1 through 4, and I'm happier with it than I am this chapter lol. I thought about including Pagan's Daughter in it, but seeing as both Pagan and Roland are dead by that point, I decided it'd be better to just make them a separate playlist, which is my next step. Anyway, big massive thank you to anyone reading this fic!! And to whoever checks out my playlist! :D

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is gonna be a series of additional/missing scenes from Pagan In Exile, because my best idea today was to write fanfiction for a 26-year-old YA book whose fandom died out when I was in middle school lol
> 
> In all seriousness, Pagan and Roland do not deserve half the shit they go through, y'all.


End file.
